Three Poems

in Mid-Summer

Theoria Roseum 


Tell me your theory 
about being born 
and letting everything go
everything you strove for 
eternity to gather 

Tell me your theory 
about being born 
and getting trapped 
in an endless garden 
an endless city 
an endless maze
endless cycle 

Tell me your theory 
about being born 
and forgetting everything, 
your journey, your history, 
your psyche, your soul 

Tell me your theory 
of being born and losing it all
of holding not a scrap in hand 
of who you are and how it was 

Tell me your theory 
about being born 
and letting everything go 
to dissolve in the wind, the air 
to fade in the aftermath 
of every moment

Tell me your theory 
about being born 
and staring into the morning the night 
wondering why the rose took so long
to come alive there in the ground, 
in your hand, on the lips 
that kiss the song 
of being born 
and letting go of being born 
and leaving it all behind 

July Touches August 


Oppressive light damages the morning of my forgiveness
You and me will outlast them, even if our masks fall, 
even if our names are forgotten
We’ve walked those streets so many times
I’ve grown tired of reciting all our adventures, 
our uncountable assignations 
Another summer is passing by, July has fugued into August, 
have you noticed the subtle laceration? 
One of these cicada mornings I will remember 
the whole story, unembellished and awkward
I’ll be staring at the window
Dumbly staring into nothing’s shadow 
and it’ll be there—
the faith, the loss, the fading of futile cheers
I’ll see 
I will see it all 

Mother tell me the way home 
so I can be captured in still 
pictures of silence, dream, forgetting 
out there where roads open past 
desire, through lucidity into oblivious 
ways and days and nights 

I don’t want a circus, a 
menagerie or a carnival 
I don’t want a city of architects 
or a town of sheriffs 
I don’t want proud mountains, 
polite politicians or empty 
gorgeous ladies

Is there a way, a home, there 
in the hand that waves, in 
the ocean that pulls away, 
in the tide where moon severs 
all chance at ecstasy, at 
threaded anonymity?